


In and Out

by a_man_falls_in_a_hole



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Christmas Cookies, Couch Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Snuggling, Spoilers for Season 2 TWW, The West Wing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3308753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_man_falls_in_a_hole/pseuds/a_man_falls_in_a_hole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in early December, one year after "Noël" (Season 2 Episode 10).</p>
<p>It's been over a year since Rosslyn, but the flashbacks won't go away.  Josh is learning that recovery doesn't happen overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In and Out

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the best sister-in-law anyone could ask for. <3

It's been too stuffy in the apartment lately, but it's December, he can't open the window. He leaves the fan on in the bathroom.  
Josh gives his damp hair one more frazzled rub with the towel and switches off the light. The oven clock reads 7:37, and Donna said she'd be here at eight. It's one of those too-short-to-do-anything but too-long-to-do-nothing pieces of time. He stands with his hands in his pockets for a minute, listening to noise of the bathroom fan hum against the quiet chairs and carpet and paint. Then he remembers that he's been wearing his blue shirt for two days and goes to the bedroom to change.  
The blue shirt gets chucked in the hamper. He had fallen asleep in his office the night before and had woken with a start when Donna knocked on the door early that morning. She told him to go home, Leo told him to go home, but he just excused himself and washed his face in the restroom and wondered why they hadn't woken him the night before.  
He actually got more sleep than usual with his cheek plastered flat to his desk, like it was just another piece of paperwork, but his eyes still ache and his legs are shaky and he's been masking yawns all day. So he paces while he waits, knowing if he sinks onto his comforter he'll fall asleep, no question, and then no one would answer the door and Donna would think . . . Well, no, he doesn't know what Donna would think, and it doesn't matter anyway because he's not falling asleep he tells himself.  
He looks down to see what shirt he put on. White button-down. He thinks maybe it's too fancy, it's not a date or anything. He said casual, right? He asked her—more like mentioned it to her—two weeks ago, so he can't be sure. But no, he's sure he said “casual,” “no big deal” like twenty times. Just watching the basketball game. “You know maybe drinks, nothing fancy.” So maybe the white shirt's too much he says and starts to unbutton it. But then he remembers that she's coming straight from work and while the idea of T-shirt or sweater suddenly sounds great, he doesn't want her to feel over-dressed . . .  
He jumps off his train of thought at the three gentle knocks. Buttoning up again, he walks quickly to the living room and slides off the chain lock and flips the dead-bolt and breathes out and opens the door.  
“Hi,” she says, smiling in her voice and on her face.  
The corners of his mouth turn down in a grin, and he relaxes his grip on the door knob. “Hey.”  
There's a quick pause but Josh won't let it get awkward so, “You wanna come in?”  
She smiles again and steps through past Josh. She's wearing a neat skirt with a lavender sweater, a typical work outfit. She sets a Tupperware container—which Josh only just now noticed—on the coffee table, takes off her wool coat, and lays it over the back of the couch.  
Josh sticks his hands in his pockets. “What's in the Tupperware?”  
“Cookies,” Donna says, smirking pleasantly. She flicks her hair over her shoulders with her hands, as Josh bends over and tilts the container so he can investigate.  
He raises his eyebrows at her and smirks back up at her. “You made cookies?”  
“Well, I didn't make them exactly.”  
“So they're from the store.”  
“No,” she insists.  
“Well—”  
She straightens up straighter and gives a little huff. “Look, my mom sent them to me for Christmas but she never remembers which Christmas cookies I like and which I don't and I don't like these ones so I thought maybe I'd give them to you—well to someone, just so they wouldn't go to waste, see?”  
There is a pause when she's done talking but Josh suddenly realizes he can't stop smiling at her but that's normal because it's Christmas, so that's fine, he'll just keep smiling but ok no he'll have a cookie because he really can't stop smiling and he's usually not that into holiday cheer, so  
He bends open a corner of the Tupperware and pulls out a cookie. It's one of the little Austrian wedding cookies, the kinds which are mostly butter and nuts and powder sugar. He pops one in his mouth, and Donna flops down on the couch.  
He takes another and eats this one in two bites, so powder sugar fluffs up and gets on the corners of his mouth and a little on his shirt. See, good thing I wore the white one.  
“How do you not like these?” he mumbles, mouth full.  
Donna shrugs. “I don't know. They're weird,” she says, wrinkling her narrow nose.  
“They're delicious,” Josh corrects her, wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumb.  
“So,” she says.  
“So,” says Josh, sinking down into the chair facing the sofa.  
“So,” she says again.  
“You aren't going to make this easy, are you?”  
She shrugs wickedly.  
And Josh rolls his eyes.  
“So when's this game start again?” she asks.  
“8:30.”  
“Who's playing?”  
“It's the—wait, sorry I forgot—do you want a drink or anything?” Josh flusters.  
“Sure,” she smiles.  
He gets up and goes into the kitchen, and he feels Donna wandering her way after him. “Beer?”  
“Sure.”  
Swings open the fridge. But there's no beer. He scoots ketchup and a jars of pickles around but there's no beer, but he could've sworn he had some. He didn't remember drinking the last one.  
“Heh,” he straightens up, laughing it off. “Sorry, I could've sworn I had a case.”  
“Must have a ghost.”  
“Heh, yeah . . .” Josh runs a hand through his almost dry hair. “Um . . . I have some Pepsi in pantry?”  
“Ok.”  
He sighs, annoyed with himself, opens the pantry doors and grabs a two-liter bottle of Pepsi he bought for some party he didn't end up going to. He starts for the cabinet where he keeps the glasses but Donna's leaning against the counter in front of it.  
“Sorry, I—” he motions.  
“Oh, sorry—” she moves over quickly.  
“No, it's—heh.” Well, that couldn't have been smoother.  
He opens the cabinet and stands there for a minute. It's empty.  
Too many late nights—shaking too hard—  
“I—I could've sworn . . . ” He is panicking, because there are no more glasses left and it's not like he doesn't have mugs or anything but there's a conspicuous lack of any drinking vessel besides tacky mugs with sports teams' mascots on them.  
Shit—did he take out the trash since . . . he must've, Donna can't see the glass in there, he's sure he took it out, but not sure enough  
They're gone and Donna's standing beside them and she sees and he's fumbling around, sweeping his hand through the empty space as if through an invisible obstacle course but God, why am I shaking, why am I shaking . . .  
“Josh?” her voice is normal, because it's really not a big deal and Josh knows that but.  
He jerks his head over at her and would take a breath if he wasn't right next to her, if it wasn't so damn obvious . . .  
“I—heh,” he forces a nervous laugh. “I forgot there—there was . . . a—there was a mouse thing and it got in my cupboards and knocked stuff over . . .”  
He has never felt so completely lame in his life. A mouse thing? It was a completely pitiful excuse, and they both knew they both knew it.  
Mercifully, Donna speaks, “Josh, it's fine.”  
He leans his fist against the counter and watches his knuckles get white.  
She checks her watch. “Look, I'm a little early so we have more than a half an hour still before the game, might as well use that time restocking your kitchen.”  
Josh looks up in time to catch her smile. He pushes off the counter.  
“No, no, it's . . .”  
“It's not a problem,” Donna insists. “Anyway, you need someone with taste helping you pick out your dishes,” throwing a mocking glance at the hodge-podge of old plastic McDonald's cups—why did I even save those—and college reunion mugs in the windowed cabinet above her head.  
She's already heading to the living room to collect her coat.  
“Donna—” Josh follows her, why is she so concerned.  
“There's a Target just down the road.”  
“I know—”  
“Get your coa—”  
“Donna!” He freezes. Drags a hand down over his face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout,” he says quietly. “I just--don't make it a big deal, it's a—” He steadies himself against a chair and closes his eyes for just a moment. “I have mugs I mean we don't even need drinks anyway, let's just . . . let's just, you know.”  
Donna smiles gently at him. “It's cold outside. Wear a scarf.”

He follows her in the automatic doors at Target, hands stuffed in the pockets of his wool coats. He's pissed that she had to make a deal out of this but he knows she's just trying to help, and she looks so cute with her ears so pink from the cold, anyway. He looks down at the winter floor, scummy with muddy-snow tracks and follows her boots to the Housewares section, growing more and more uncomfortable, remembering.  
He was supposed to be fine after Stanley . . . after. Leo pulled him aside every now and then to check in with him, but it had stopped being the regular ritual—the “You good?” he pretended was unnecessary, but wasn't. The first few months he'd been fine, great even. But then May—one year after Rosslyn—happened, and he relapsed bad enough he had to take a couple of days off. He started seeing his therapist twice a week, but it had shaken him up pretty bad, and since then it had been up and down. After Thanksgiving, the nightmares returned; he was slipping back, and he knew it and he knew why. He kept smiling and was keeping it under control. Everybody was acting like everything was back to normal, and he had thought it was going to be, but . . .  
Leo knew things like this didn't go away overnight, and Josh was finding that out the hard way. Leo wasn't pressing, just keeping an eye on him. And Donna . . . he realized she probably knew him better than anybody, even Sam, even C.J. She probably knew . . . and now that she had seen his cabinets, fuck she probably knew, knew he was still failing, knew he couldn't just fucking get his act together and get over it . . . stupid . . .  
There's a panic rising in his throat, and he stiffens and looks up to see they've come to a stop in a colorful aisle where Donna is glancing at the shelves, then at him, then back at the shelves.  
He spins around and blinks hard and tries to focus on something real and tangible like his therapist had said and he breathes in through his nose—road-salt, overly buttery popcorn—and blinks open his eyes and it is—woman with huge purse, red carts, red signs, red aisles, too much red, calm down Jos—  
He feels a gentle touch on his arm and spins around. “Josh?”  
“Yeah.” He scratches his nose.  
“I was asking what about these?”  
She's holding a stack of tall plastic cups, with colorful—green, orange, magenta, blue, yellow—polka dots and stripes. She is giving him a teasing smile, a joking this-is-so-you look.  
And is already turning to put them back on the shelves, but  
“Sure,” he says, absent-mindedly.  
She kind of laughs, “You want these? The sophomore-college-girl glasses.”  
No, he just doesn't care, he just needs to get out of this store, so he shrugs his shoulders high, hands jammed in his pockets, “Whatever.”  
She looks carefully at him, but then smiles with a slow, “Okay.”  
They head to the checkout, Josh thanking his lucky stars they are going, feeling better. He watches as Donna sets the lone stack of cups down on the belt, pulls out her purse. He should've offered to buy them, he thinks, but he didn't want to come shopping in the first place—  
Someone moves in with a full shopping cart behind him, and he flashes a polite smile and shifts away, but there isn't much of anywhere to go—trapped—and he swivels and looks at the candy, reading all the prices and picks up a Snickers bar and reads the ingredients list til Donna nudges him because they are going finally thank God.  
They head to the doors, him keeping time with Donna's quick strides, and they are turning, and through the sliding doors, he vaguely hears a tingling, but then a brick of icy air hits him but it isn't the cold that makes him freeze.  
Someone has set up a Salvation Army collection bucket and a group of young people, probably college students are standing around, ringing little bells—non-stop—and laughing with their friends, bundled up in hats and scarves and mittens and they keep ringing the bells—and the bucket and stand are red too—and he feels something rising from his stomach to his head—tingling, shut the fuck up--and he just has time—ringing, ringing—just has time to think “please no” when it shatters in his head  
a glass and—sharp bang! the light on the police car—glass everywhere flying and he was flying too  
just trying to get away from the noise, he is hurtling past people, through the swinging white doors, through the night, trying to get down, to get away,  
and he knew—it was worse in the flashbacks because he knew it was coming—hand sliced, heart beating, not beating—he knew it would . . .  
And then it did, the bullet hit him it was sinking deep into him, invading him, tearing through his lung, and he staggered over, slipped on something, his chest pounding, he was down—not getting up again—  
he couldn't breathe, it is too dark—why wouldn't it stop, the sirens were still ringing, why didn't somebody shut them off, they keep ringing because he wasn't fine—that must be it, that must be why they wouldn't goddamn stop—everyone hovering over him, couldn't breathe he was--  
“Josh!”  
He is . . . not okay, there was blood all overhow did it get in my eyes please stop why was everything so red  
“Josh!”  
please stop  
“Josh, I'm here!”  
Suddenly the night air bites his face, and it is not muggy summer night air, it is biting December air  
His vision tunnels out, and he feels a hand on his shoulder—not his chest—and it isn't pressing down hard, it is just there.  
His hands grip the back of his head hard, elbows folded tight over his face, sticky and it is wet sticky, tears not blood . . . God, he isn't crying is he, Jesus . . .  
“It's okay,” the hand is saying, and it is Donna, it is Donna crouched beside him. “It's okay, it's okay,” she is saying over and over again but it is him saying it too, rocking back and forth against something round he finds his back against . . . something—real and tangible—which is a big red ball because he is at Target, Target—red  
“Take some deep breaths, okay?”  
He presses his hands together over his nose and mouth, and knows better than to close his eyes and he sucks in deep, shuddering breaths and tries to focus.  
Donna is rubbing slow circles on his back, and she is taking slow, audible breaths, and he tries to match his to hers, his breathing is slowly coming down, but then it rises up again but “It's okay, you're here now, you're fine” and it brings it back, he is okay—in and out, in and out  
In and out.

His jeans are damp and chilly from sitting on the slushy pavement, so he changes into sweatpants when they get back to his apartment. He decides all pretense of looking presentable and respectable were lost when he had a panic attack on the sidewalk outside a Target, so he decides to ditch the button-down. It takes a minute to get the buttons undone because his hands are still shaking as an after-effect, but then he tugs off the shirt and pulls on a bleach-stained navy sweatshirt.  
Donna's in the kitchen, giving their purchase a quick wash before pouring out Pepsi into two cups. Josh wants to avoid interaction for as long as possible, so he goes into the living room, clicks to the channel where the game is already five minutes in.  
Just get over yourself, act normal.  
“Game's starte—!” he yells before looking up to see Donna right behind him, handing him his drink.  
“Yeah,” she says, settling down on the other side of the couch.  
Josh feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what, so he just looks at the TV, not really seeing. With the TV on, whistles blowing, casters shouting, he can breathe without her hearing his concentration. In and out. #10 scores a 3-point shot in the last second on the shot clock, the crowds cheer. In and out. Sip the soda. In and out.  
At the commercial break, Donna gets up to make some microwave popcorn. Josh rubs his temples.  
She settles back down on the couch, tearing open the steaming bag. They sit there, just watching the game. Donna tucks her legs up onto the couch, and her knees just touch the fabric of Josh's sweatpants and his knee stops jerking restlessly. The couch is warm and their fingers are oily with fake-butter. She asks him about the funny hand signals the refs make, and he answers her between handfuls of popcorn. She laughs under her breath at the ridiculous Christmas commercials for Macy's and Sears. His arm finds its way to the back of the couch, and he is okay. In the back of his head, he knows this won't last forever, he knows he won't be able to sleep tonight, he'll be pulling down his sleeves for a while now, he'll be on some other sidewalk, somewhere. But for now,  
—popcorn smell—referee blowing whistles—Donna—the ribbing in her sweater—commentators babbling—scratchy fabric of couch—Donna's smile—ok—i'm ok—

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it! Feel free to comment if you like. :)
> 
> Peace out.


End file.
